


how to mend your own heart

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Brazilian Grand Prix 2019, Hand Jobs, M/M, Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 05:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21489385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: A quick celebratory handjob is actually something that can besopersonal.
Relationships: Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz Jr
Comments: 13
Kudos: 156





	how to mend your own heart

When he’d looked up at Zak and said _I’m in_—as if agreeing to a casual night out, not making the biggest decision of his life—Lando hadn’t expected to ever kiss the taste of dry bubbly off his teammate’s mouth, mostly because no one could have anticipated seeing papaya orange on a podium this year. 

Yet that’s exactly what he’s doing, back to the wall, desperate hands on Carlos’ shoulders, melting at the slow slide of their lips against each other. He’s drunk on nonalcoholic beer and raw adrenaline, and Carlos is hot, not just handsome-hot but _temperature_-hot, burning Lando’s skin with every touch. Lando scarcely remembers his early self-flagellation—in this moment, he is good. He is loved. His hands have made some good mistakes on the track, but they can always make better ones in this hotel room. 

“Get on the bed,” Carlos says, low and smooth. “I want to see you, really see you.”

Lando laughs, walking backwards until he hits the bedstead and flops on to the mattress, clumsy as fuck. “Come here,” he says, arms stretched out. It turns out to be a shit decision, because as soon as Carlos leaps on him, Lando’s lungs collapse under the sudden, huge weight. He mentally bids his parents farewell and thanks his team for the lovely opportunity before Carlos nudges his shoulder, snapping him out of his stupor.

“Are you alive?”

“No,” Lando says, snorting at Carlos’ failed attempts to snap his fingers in front of his face. “You’re so heavy I can’t breathe. I’m going to _die_ here.”

“Stop being dramatic,” says Carlos, pushing himself up anyway. He doesn’t fancy killing Lando on the best day of his life, after all. It would be a shame to end up in prison so soon. “You always do this. First after the race, and now this. You have to be more relaxed.”

“Okay, I get it, now please get on with it,” Lando complains, pointedly ignoring Carlos’ advice and pulling him in for a messy-steamy kiss. 

Snogging Carlos is a little bit similar to eating a spicy dish, which Lando reckons might be kind of an insensitive comparison to make, but it’s the only one he can come up with. It starts bland, then bursts into flame when you least expect it—like when Carlos suddenly seizes Lando’s hips and pulls him closer, and that’s definitely an erection, all right, cool, Lando’s got this. He sits up and unzips Carlos’ trousers with shaky fingers, offering him a coy smile before pulling his cock out of his briefs. 

Boy, does Lando love this part. 

Carlos’ dick is, well, pretty fucking big. It’s as girthy as Lando’s own but _longer_, like the director’s cut of penises, except Carlos is _un_cut and this metaphor is getting away from him, isn’t it, Lando should probably let it go. He wraps a hand around Carlos’ cock and moves real slow, testing the waters.

“You are teasing me too much,” Carlos says. He could simply get himself off instead of waiting for Lando to do it, but he is loath to violate the sanctity of their mutual masturbation ritual, so he stays still. “This is supposed to be a celebration of my podium, not giving me blue balls, you know.”

“You just told me to be patient,” Lando points out, and wow, he loves mesmerising people with his flawless argumentative skills. He gently slides Carlos’ foreskin down, glancing up to gauge his reaction, then runs his thumb over the bead of pre gathering at the head of his cock. “Is this good?”

Carlos sighs and grabs a handful of Lando’s hair to steady himself. “You are always good.”

Praise comforts Lando in ways he avoids talking about. 

It takes very little time for Carlos to get fully hard, in spite of the ridiculous amounts of alcohol buzzing in his system, and even less time for him to spill on to Lando’s palm, white-hot stripes on pale skin. Some of it lands on his own belly, much to Lando’s silly amusement and faux-disgust.

“Okay, give me a second,” Lando announces. He jumps out of the bed and goes into the bathroom to wash his hands and fetch some paper towels—he has _manners_, dammit. He uses them to wipe the grime and come off Carlos’ stomach, tender sex—if one can even call it that—followed by tender aftercare. 

Once the wad of tissues is in the bin and Carlos is no longer sticky, Lando curls up under the covers, his face hidden against Carlos’ neck. Eventually, he mumbles, “I’m sorry I was in a bad mood before.”

Carlos taps Lando’s temple. “You think too much, which is good sometimes, but other times you just think stupid things. Not good for you, no. You are a very fast driver and a great friend. No need to worry just because I got P3 now—I have raced four years. You have time.”

“I know,” Lando says, and really, he does. Debut season in a midfield team, yadda yadda. But everyone’s pep talks sound hollow to his ears, as if they’re pretending he hadn’t failed to extract the most out of the car, and he’s tired. He just wishes the team would be honest with him. “I wanted to be better, I guess. It’s all right.”

“You are better,” says Carlos, petting Lando’s hair. “This is a secret, so don’t tell it to anyone, but I think that you will be world champion one day. And you will dedicate the trophy to me, of course, your most handsome and sexy teammate.”

“Are we still gonna be teammates?”

“Yep. What was it that you said in your stupid radio message? Like forever.”

Lando laughs. “Fine, you’ve convinced me,” he says, raising his head to kiss Carlos, soft, warm, _safe_. He realises, then, all of the following statements are true: he loves Carlos, Carlos loves him, and he is finally ready to be loved like this. 

**Author's Note:**

> “I am good. I am loved. My hands have made some good mistakes. They can always make better ones.” _Least of All_, Natalie Wee. 
> 
> Another poem of hers, _how to break your own heart_, was altered by moi to give you some good ol’ fluff. “All of the following are true: A) you love him. B) He loves you. C) You just aren’t ready to be loved like this.”
> 
> Am I singlemalter on Tumblr? You bet.


End file.
